


Falling and Flying

by Joules Mer (joulesmer)



Series: Nostos [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring Mycroft, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Past Torture, Post-Reichenbach, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-22 12:58:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4836278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joulesmer/pseuds/Joules%20Mer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“<i>God help me</i>, John thought.  There was Mary at home.  Kind, loving, <i>unsuspecting</i> Mary, and yet being here with Sherlock settling under his hand couldn’t feel more right. “</p><p>Directly follows <i>Winning the Endgame</i><br/>Sherlock returns from dismantling Moriarty’s network, thinner and with a smile that never quite reaches his eyes. Mycroft is a caring brother and does what he can, and John dreams of ravens. Post-Reichenbach, reunions (and getting Mary out of the picture).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friends Protect People

_**Directly** follows “Winning the Endgame”_

# # # # # # # # #

 

The sight of Mycroft Holmes wearing an apron over his suit was almost enough to make John miss the fact that the small table was set for four people. "What..." John started, but Mycroft held up a forestalling finger. As if on cue the doorbell rang.

"Company?" Sherlock arched an eyebrow and moved to stand behind one of the chairs. The kitchen was a thoroughly upper middle class London concoction: a stainless steel gas cooker, slate floor and heavy blonde wooden countertops. It was thoroughly more modern than the rest of the house, which reeked of an old money aesthetic, but somehow not out of place. 

Mycroft simpered at his brother, "Uninvited, but to be expected."

Sherlock smiled knowingly in return and John felt the usual mystification that accompanied witnessing an exchange of deductions between the Holmes brothers.

The doorbell rang again and John frowned. "Aren't you going to get that? Or do want me..."

Mycroft shook his head and bent down to pull a dish out of the oven. "He knows it's unlocked; he only rings to be polite."

There was a bang that made John jump, but it turned out to be Sherlock opening a bottle of champagne. “Oi,” John pointed a finger at the other man and tried to steady his frayed nerves, “please go easy on that with your medication.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Sherlock began to pour into four flutes, “you know I'm overdue for a painkiller. That one from earlier has completely worn off.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the exchange and drily said, "What does one learn at Oxbridge but how to drink a little too much?" He set a dish on the table and turned to the doorway as he pulled off the apron, "Hello, Gregory."

Lestrade entered the room with a brief nod at John, but eyes only for Sherlock as he said, "So I asked myself where I could find a massive _git_ who faked his own death for two years and saved my life and there was only one possible answer." Before John could hold him back the detective pulled Sherlock into a tight hug. Sherlock grunted, but brought an arm up to return the gesture rather than pull away. "It's good to see you, mate." The words were muttered gruffly in the vicinity of Sherlock's dressing gown clad shoulder.

Sherlock helplessly caught John's eye over the other man's shoulder. "Likewise."

Greg caught sight of the dish on the table and grinned. "You did your egg thing. Cheers." He sat down in a chair without waiting for an invitation. “I haven't had a proper bite yet today. The Yard was in an uproar. We were still on a case from last night and Anderson came sprinting in waving the papers and raving about how he'd been right that you were still alive. Don't know how he got through security. Donovan locked herself in the loo for over an hour... She wasn't mentioned in the article, but enough people knew how the investigation of Sherlock came about. Ta for making me not look terrible, by the way.” 

John regarded the DI in confusion as he asked, "You've had Mycroft's 'egg thing' before?"

“Well, yeah. Back before, when Sherlock was…” Greg trailed off and waved a hand in the air as he sought a polite euphemism.

Sherlock cut in dryly, “I believe the phrase is 'an habitual user of opioids'.”

Greg nodded. “Back then.” Seeing that John still didn’t look enlightened, he said, “I brought him home to Mycroft’s a few times so he could sleep it off safely. Get checked out. That sort of thing.” Greg picked up a glass and looked expectantly between Sherlock and Mycroft. "What are we drinking to?"

Mycroft inclined his head slightly towards his brother. Sherlock raised his glass and contemplated for a second before he slowly said, “To a much yearned for homecoming."

John felt something clench slightly in his chest as he clinked his glass in return, as if Sherlock had encompassed John's yearning in the toast as well. His chest clenched even more violently as Sherlock caught his eye over the raised glasses and quirked a cheek in an almost-wink. It was the shadow of a gesture from all those years ago around a Bart's laboratory door.

The champagne was good. Very good, but that shouldn’t have been a surprise given the host. The food was, in fact, delicious as well. John wondered idly if Mycroft could be persuaded to part with the recipe. They ate in silence; Sherlock and Lestrade famished, and Mycroft and John content to simply enjoy the company.

“So.” Greg swallowed a mouthful and washed it down with a gulp of champagne before he continued, “What’s the plan then, Sherlock? Are you going back to Baker Street?”

Sherlock nodded confidently, but there was an uncertainty in his voice as he said, “If Mrs. Hudson is amenable.”

“I expect she will be.” Mycroft dabbed at his upper lip with his napkin. “I’ve been holding the flat in trust and paying rent on the pretense of not being ready to clear it out yet. I did offer to vacate if she wanted to take a new tenant, in case she prefers company in the building, but that hasn’t happened yet.”

John watched in fascination as Sherlock not only finished his plate of food, but moved to serve himself a second helping from the dish on the table. He realised he was soaking in the other man’s presence, as if Sherlock were something to be absorbed and nourished by.

"Well that's great." Greg beamed. "It will be good to get you back on a case or two once the fuss dies down a little. We’re going to have a new Chief Superintendent after all this and I know who it is-- he saw Sherlock in action once and was always skeptical about the whole ‘fake’ thing. Not to mention the Commissioner did like John’s blog back in the day." His mobile buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out, frowning as he read the message. "That ugly old toad from the Daily Mail has turned up again demanding quotes. I'd better get back." He left his plate on the table and stood. "Thanks for lunch, Mycroft. Good to see you Sherlock... John." 

They heard his footsteps disappear down the hallway and Mycroft waited for the distant thud of the front door closing before he spoke, “All your effects, Sherlock, and everything you left John, have remained at Baker Street, aside from laptops and other items of a more personal nature. I can have them retrieved from storage and put back to rights this afternoon. There are two items I have been keeping in my personal possession; if you’ll bear with me.” 

He left the room and Sherlock rolled his eyes at John, mouth full of fritatta. 

Before John could reply, Mycroft returned. In his left hand was Sherlock’s violin case; in his right: something wrapped in a black cloth.

Sherlock snatched the violin out of his brother’s hand, cradling the case like a baby in his arms. The cloth-wrapped object Mycroft set on the table with a heavy clunk. John reached out a hand and pulled the cloth aside. It was his gun. Unmistakeably. It had the small scuff on the grip from when he’d dropped it in Bastion, and the dent and dodgy screw from when his unit got themselves blown up outside Kandahar for their trouble. He took it in his hand and gave a shaky exhale because it just felt so _right_.

The breath wasn’t missed by Mycroft, who said, “I trust this is an appropriate time to return it to your possession, Dr. Watson?” 

John nodded, mutely, more overcome than he’d have expected to be. He took the weapon in both hands, left thumb stroking absently down the barrell. 

When John eventually looked up again Mycroft was gone. Sherlock had the violin out of its case, but was staring intently across the table at John. “Why did Mycroft have your gun? You didn’t shoot another cabbie, surely.”

The gun clattered as John convulsively put it down and slid his chair backwards, putting space between himself and the table. His heart had started pounding and he had to clench his hands into fists until it slowed down enough for him to speak. Slowly and carefully, he explained, “Sherlock, the last time I held this gun I was at your tombstone. I was missing you so badly. My limp had come back and I couldn’t sleep without nightmares of you falling off Bart’s. I went to the cemetery and I was talking to you and I didn’t even realize I had the gun in my pocket until it started to rain and I shoved my hand inside and there it was. I don’t know what I was thinking, or what I was going to do. All I knew was I missed you so _fiercely_. Then Greg was there. I guess Mycroft must have tipped him off. He bundled me into a cab and back to my flat, we got roaring drunk on scotch, and when I looked in my coat the next morning my gun was gone.

Sherlock dipped his head towards the other man, but John wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I missed you too.” When no reply was forthcoming the next words came out in a rush, “I nearly contacted you so many times, John. Sometimes I almost couldn’t bear to be away.”

John kept his gaze down on his folded hands and said, “I nearly _didn’t_ bear it, Sherlock.”

“I’m." Sherlock faltered at the rarely expressed sentiment. "I’m so sorry, John.” The other man still wouldn’t meet his eyes, so Sherlock picked up his violin and began tuning it, plucking the strings absently as he said, “I was in Istanbul last winter. The sun had set and it was cold down by the Bosphorus. The call to prayer was sounding, ear splittingly loud but magical all the same as it echoed from rooftop to rooftop. I remember the fountain in front of the blue mosque was lit up with coloured light. Normally the whole area is overrun by men touting things for the tourists, but they’d all cleared off." He took a deep breath and admitted, "and I just walked. All night. Because I couldn’t bear to go back to the hotel and sit there alone. Eventually I stood on a bridge looking over the Golden Horn until morning." The violin twanged a discordant note. "I'd never felt so alone."

“I didn’t know you felt loneliness.” It was out of his mouth before John could think.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open wide, surprised, the words heavy between them. He closed his mouth with a click, then wet his lips and said softly, "I am a human being, John."

"You didn’t exactly give a sign."

"Didn't I?"

John remembered his words so many years ago, _A date: it’s where two people who like each other go out and have fun_ , and Sherlock's reply, petulant: _That’s what I was suggesting_. He tried to pick his next words with more care, but they came out defensively nonetheless. “You just never seemed to have wanted anyone before. It was all just the work, wasn’t it?”

“And before I was a high functioning opioid addict and recreational user of cocaine… and according to some the ‘high functioning’ element was debatable." Sherlock's eyes glinted in the artificial light of the kitchen and his voice rumbled deeply, sarcastically, "Do you have any more _brilliant_ observations to share?”

There was truth in the words, yet the usual flash of anger boiled up at the insult. "Well I'm sorry I can't deduce as well as you, Sherlock!" John's voice raised in tone and volume, heat gathering behind his words. "I'm sorry I called you a machine all that time ago, and I'm bloody well sorry I spent two years worrying you might have actually cared and that comment helped push you to it." Chest heaving, John stood and gained the rare height advantage over Sherlock. 

“Moriarty knew I had a heart.” Sherlock spoke quickly, angrily, in return without making a move to stand, “He wasn’t going to kill me; he was going to burn the _heart_ out of me.”

“Oh, great, that’s just great! So I bloody well don’t measure up to Moriarty. I’ve missed this.” John stabbed a finger in the air, accusingly, “I’ve really missed _this!_ ”

“I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock repeated himself, uncharacteristically, and more calmly, “I suppose I at least knew that it all had a purpose. Knew that I was trying to return home. To keep you safe.”

John’s anger was still there, simmering away, but in the face of Sherlock’s apology he couldn’t find it in himself to throw back more harsh words. Eventually, he managed, “Thank you, Sherlock, really. But it’s just…” John looked helplessly from his friend to the floor, to the sink. As if something that would be the right thing to say were lurking by Mycroft’s refrigerator. “There’s just a lot going on that I wasn’t expecting. You back, and the lies, and Mary… Jesus, I don’t know what I’m going to say to Mary.” John sat back down, heavily, the rest of his anger evaporating.

Sherlock set his violin back in its case and latched it, saying almost conversationally, “I killed Mrs. Hudson's sniper that evening.” It was as if having started the story Sherlock felt a need to tell it to the end. He slid the case to the middle of the table and steepled his fingers under his chin, not meeting John’s eyes. “He lived with his mother in a house down in one of those residential gullies east of Taksim. His mother was cooking dinner, but distracted by the frankly correct suspicion that her daughter’s lover had fathered a child with a British tourist in Bodrum. I had no way to get the authorities in Istanbul interested in arresting him. I'd almost lost him twice already and this was clearly going to be his last night in the city before moving on. I found my way to their neighbourhood just before sunset. The streets are very steep around there. I slipped into the house, made my way past the kitchen to his bedroom, found him having a nap… and throttled him with a scarf.” The ending was delivered in the same matter of fact tone as the rest of the story, but John could see a blankness in Sherlock’s eyes that was never there before.

The short length of highly polished wooden table between them felt like an almost insurmountable barrier. Sherlock sat, fingers still steepled, not meeting John’s eyes. 

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock, and if I could have been there with you I would have.” Sherlock still didn’t make any move to meet John’s eyes. John let the silence stretch, then stood and moved around the table to stand behind the other man’s chair and placed a gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He only just managed to mask his surprise when Sherlock leaned into the touch, resting dark curls against John’s forearm. There was a weariness in the gesture. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”

“I’m not tired.” The words were mumbled, and discredited by a stifled yawn.

“Yes, you are. Come on, Sherlock, up.” John stepped back and gently tugged the other man to his feet. There were still plates and dirty glasses on the table, but John figured Mycroft could clean up later. 

They went back to the bedroom without catching sight of Mycroft; John supposed he was tucked away somewhere, running the British government. The dressing gown slithered to the floor halfway across the bedroom and Sherlock clambered back into the bed, settling on his stomach. Remembering the gesture in the kitchen, John gently smoothed the hair back from his friend’s forehead. Sherlock relaxed under the touch, but John frowned. The detective’s forehead was warmer than he had expected. “How are you feeling?” 

Sherlock’s voice was muffled by the pillows, but John could make out a mumbled, “Tired.”

“Beyond that?”

John could sense the eye-roll even if he couldn’t see it. “Sore.”

“Anywhere in particular? Anywhere not explained by cuts and bruises?”

Sherlock rolled onto his back with a pained grunt, eyes narrowed as he looked at John. “Why?”

John took the opportunity to press his hand more carefully across Sherlock’s forehead. “I think you’ve got a low-grade fever.

“My chest hurts a little. When I breathe in…” Reading the worry on John’s face he admitted, “I’ve had a cough for a while.” 

John cursed himself for focusing on bandaging and not pushing to perform a full exam earlier. He pulled his stethoscope from the bag, warmed it in his hand and then gently slipped it under Sherlock's top. There was a telltale creak and gurgle of congestion when Sherlock inhaled, and when he told the other man to inhale deeply it triggered a coughing fit. "Pneumonia, I think. I'm sorry I didn't catch it earlier. I was a little... distracted." He looped the stethoscope around his neck and scrubbed a hand through his hair in frustration. "We should get your chest x-rayed. Find out what we're dealing with; maybe the hospital would be best. You're not exactly strong enough to fight off an infection right now." The look Sherlock gave John at the suggestion of the hospital made his feeling clear in that matter.

Sherlock shook his head weakly, but decisively, "I don't want to go anywhere."

John frowned, considering. There were some specimen kits in the supplies Mycroft had sourced, which presumably meant he had a lab ready to process them. "Fine. There are some decent antibiotics from Mycroft. We'll start you on those now and I'll take a sample of what's going on in your lungs. If it's something we can treat here we'll do that; if it's more than I can manage on my own you're going to the hospital."

Sherlock nodded, mutinously, but didn’t disagree. He gave a pained cough for the sample, silently extended an arm for John to quickly draw blood, then rolled himself in the blankets and settled back on his stomach.

John flicked off the lights, but found himself standing over the bed instead of searching out Mycroft with the sputum sample. He could tell from Sherlock’s rigid posture that the other man was not going to fall asleep anytime soon. Coming to a decision, John sat down on the edge of the bed, noting with dismay that Sherlock seemed to stiffen even further when the bed dipped under his weight. He reached out and gently ran his fingers through the slightly sweat matted curls. “I promise I won’t send you to hospital unless it’s absolutely necessary.” He felt an incremental relaxation from the other man, and encouraged, continued, “I just want to make sure you’re going to be okay.” Whether it was the words or the contact John wasn’t sure, but Sherlock relaxed even further. John stayed on the side of the bed, gently running his fingers through the other man’s hair and feeling him relax by degrees with each stroke. Eventually, he felt a deeper lassitude settle and Sherlock’s breathing evened out. John gave a few more gentle strokes before stilling his hand, cupping the back of Sherlock’s head.

 _God help me_ , he thought. There was Mary at home. Kind, loving, _unsuspecting_ Mary, and yet being here with Sherlock settling under his hand couldn’t feel more right. John reluctantly removed his hand and pulled the blankets up more securely around Sherlock’s shoulders. Between the fever and the sheer leanness of his frame he was bound to feel the cold more acutely. He caught himself smoothing the blankets over Sherlock’s bony shoulder, collected himself and slipped out of the room.


	2. The Side of the Angels

Having had lunch at Mycroft's kitchen table was still surreal. John supposed most people had a kitchen table, and knowing Mycroft, well, God only knew how formal the actual dining room could be. He didn't know what to make of this version of Mycroft-- this family man. John remembered words from their first days and supposed it had been there all along, if he'd known how to see it. _I worry, constantly._ In any case it was much better than Mycroft’s usual impersonation of a constipated eagle perched on an umbrella.

He’d texted Mary that he might not be home that night and received a very understanding message in return with the offer of her acting as nurse if he needed one. He felt torn. There was Sherlock: back, breathing, obviously beaten to within an inch of his life and likely fighting off a case of walking pneumonia. And then there was Mary. _His Mary._ She’d saved him when everything was just so dark.

There was a ring hidden in with his army medals and carefully chosen words he’d been rehearsing for the last week: _Mary, I know we haven’t known each other for a long time. And as you well know these last couple of years haven’t been easy for me, and meeting you has been the best thing that could have possibly happened. So if you’ll have me, Mary, could you see your way to becoming my wife?”_

Of course, Sherlock had saved him first. Taken a broken, limping John Watson and turned him back into a human being. John felt a sudden urgency to resolve things. Today. No matter what he’d texted Mary earlier. John padded further down the carpeted hallway in search of Mycroft. He wasn’t in the front room, the kitchen or the library. Just when John was debating trying the upstairs, Mycroft appeared from around a corner.

“John?”

“He’s running a bit of a fever and his lungs sound congested.” John held up the small containers. “I’ve taken samples-- can you get them tested so we’ll know if it’s viral or bacterial, and what we’re dealing with?” 

“Of course.” Mycroft took the samples and tucked them into a pocket of his suit. “I take it he is opposed to a visit to the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“And you are going out?”

John didn’t know how Mycroft deduced that, but nodded. “I need to talk to Mary. Can you check on him and text me if he looks any worse? I’ve upped the antibiotics. With rest and fluids he should be just fine until I get back.”

“And we should be expecting you?”

“Yeah, I just need an hour or two.”

Mycroft nodded, but his eyes continued to flit over John’s features, as if drawing a conclusion of their own. Whatever answer he came to, Mycroft kept it to himself, instead he simply said mildly, “Very well, see you later, John.”

 

# # # # # # # # #

 

John walked further than he’d intended to, passing bus stops and black cabs that would have quickly taken him to his destination. Eventually the sun dipped properly below the rooftops and he hopped on the tube, riding it the last few stops to his destination. Their flat wasn’t central, and it wasn’t trendy, but it was comfortable. The top floor in a semi-detached house that Mary had lived in on her own before John moved in as well. Just far enough outside of central London to be affordable on his salary and the small investment income from an inheritance that Mary used to top-up her nurse’s pay.

John opened the door and there she was: sitting in her favourite chair and reading a book. The papers were on the coffee table in front of her, _Hero Returns from the Dead_ emblazoned under the masthead of The Times in bold black lettering. John felt his heart begin to thump uncomfortably in his chest.

“John!” May looked up from her book, smiling in surprise. “I didn’t think you’d make it back tonight. How is he? How are you?”

John shuffled over the threshold and let the door slip shut behind him. “I’m fine.” He found his mouth had gone dry, cleared his throat and tried again, “I’m fine. Bit of a shock really, but fine.”

She patted the arm of the chair next to hers. “That’s an understatement if I ever heard one. Come on, sit down, and I’ll make you a cuppa. Have you eaten? There’s still some of the leftover pesto from yesterday I could reheat.”

“No, Mary, I’m fine. Thank you. No tea, not right now.” He moved over and sat down in his chair. 

He could sense her studying him. After a moment, she asked, “Is this where you tell me you knew he was alive all along, and were actually upset that you had to stay here while he was off risking his life taking on Moriarty’s people?”

“God, no.” John exhaled in surprise at her question. “I wish that were the truth, but I did think he was dead.”

Mary cocked her head to one side and said, “Then what is it that you don’t want to tell me?”

John forced himself to meet her eyes as he said, “I think…” he started, then amended, “I _am_ going to move back to Baker Street. With Sherlock, as soon as he’s well enough.”

He could watch the realisation of what that statement implied cross her face. “What?” Her voice had gone dull, flat, and her eyes followed suit.

“I didn’t know he was alive, Mary, and it almost killed me. You saw that. But now that he’s back… I want… I need to go back with him.” He faltered, trying to make her understand. “He did it to save my life, Mary. He faked his death. He did it all for me.”

The flatness in her eyes vanished, replaced by a sudden anger. “You’re a doctor, John, you were in Afghanistan! Surely you know the difference between a dead body and a real person! Especially when it’s a friend of yours!”

John felt his own tenuous link on composure snap, no matter how wrong he knew it was. “A friend I’d just watched jump off a building! I took his pulse and it wasn’t there, that was about all I could manage.”

Her voice was getting high pitched, hysterical, and bright red spots appeared on her cheeks. “You said you're not gay. You said he was just your flatmate, and maybe your friend.”

“I wasn't!" John winced and amended, "I am not gay!”

“Oh,” She wobbled her head and waved an arm expansively, ““So you just want to go back to living with your mate and run around London solving crimes? _Very mature_ , John.”

“I don't know! I just know I’m going back to Baker Street.”

"Jesus, John! You're a _doctor_. You have a hundred patients to see this week that are counting on you." Her face twisted in an effort to avoid tears and she said, "I'm counting on you."

“I know, Mary, and I’m sorry. I truly am, but..” He waved his hands, helplessly, “But that’s just how it is.”

Her lips thinned and she shook her head. “No. You’ve had a terrible shock and you’re trying to make a decision in the heat of it. I can accept that. I can’t accept that this is the choice you _really_ want to make.”

His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket and she gave it a sharp look, as if daring him to answer it.

John released the crushing grip his hands had taken on the arms of the chair and said softly, “You saved me, Mary. You truly did, but it can’t be about that now. It just can’t.”

She burst into tears. John reached out awkwardly and gathered her into his arms, pulling her from her chair and onto his lap. The phone buzzed again, insistently, but Mary only gripped him more firmly, trapping it under her body as she sobbed even more loudly.

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, long enough that his legs had gone completely numb from her weight. Eventually, she stopped shuddering, but it was a while still before she pulled back. Her eyes were red and her face blotchy. John didn’t want to think about what mess was likely on the front of his jacket. She sniffed hard and cleared her throat, sounding more like her normal self when she said, “I’m going to go to Rachel’s. I’d prefer it if you weren’t here when I come back in the morning. Please leave your keys on the counter.”

John nodded, a lump had settled in his throat that he wasn’t sure he could speak around. She stood up briskly, texting her friend and gathering her purse and a few other articles together. She pulled on her red coat and turned at the door. “Goodbye, John.”

“Goodbye, Mary.”

The door slammed heavily behind her and John winced. He sat for a while before checking his watch and being surprised to find it was after midnight. So much for being gone an hour or two. He heaved himself out of the chair and looked around the flat, considering what to do. It didn’t take him long to reach a decision.

John threw his clothes haphazardly into a bag, collected his laptop, toothbrush and shaving kit, the box with his army things, a few books and at the last minute remembered to pluck the ashtray off the bookshelf before he dropped his keys on the counter and clattered down the stairs, through the main door and out to the road.

There were four missed calls from a blocked number, plus one text saying _Please do advise if I can’t expect you in the next half hour_. It was from over five hours ago. John cursed and flagged down a cab. It was past one o’clock in the morning by the time the cab pulled up in front of Mycroft’s. The house was silent and dark, not a hint of light spilling around the edges of the drawn curtains. John tried the door handle: unlocked. It was at least a sign from Mycroft, if not Sherlock.

He dumped his things in the entryway. There was a dim lamp illuminating the hall, but no sign of light in any of the rooms. He made his way half by touch through to the guest bedroom where he’d left Sherlock that afternoon, a sliver of light from the street shone around the edge of the curtains. The bed was empty. John felt something clench sharply in his chest.

“He’s in a private hospital.” Mycroft detached himself from the shadows by the desk. “I’m afraid you weren’t answering your phone.” Even in the near darkness John can feel the pointed look in his direction.

Worst case scenarios and things he could have missed were flying through John’s head. “Is he all right?”

“They said he will be.” Mycroft made no move to come closer. “His fever increased and he began having difficulty breathing. I thought it a prudent course of action.”

“Yes, Jesus, yes, Mycroft.” John realised his knees felt weak and he steadied himself on the back of the chair still set by the head of the bed. “Thank you. I’m sorry…”

“Don’t apologise, Dr. Watson. At least not to me.” 

“Can we… can I go see him?”

“The car will be around shortly.” John could sense Mycroft continuing to study him. No doubt taking in the smeared stain on the shoulder and chest of his jacket that was likely visible even in the low light. After a moment Mycroft inclined his head in an invitation to follow and led the way back through the house and out into the street. A black car pulled up and Mycroft helped himself into the nearby passenger door, letting John go around and take the seat behind the driver.

Despite the hour the streets were still bustling, filled with black cabs and late night revelers. Neither man spoke as the car weaved through traffic, eventually pulling up to what John recognised as one of the leading private hospitals in London. 

A private hospital at night was more quiet than the NHS. No tumultuous emergency admissions or patients being transferred around, and even the monitoring equipment seemed quieter, more subtle. Mycroft led the way down the corridor, but before they could enter the room a nurse appeared and blocked their way. “Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but could you please wait a moment? He had a nightmare and ripped out his IV… we’re just setting another one now.”

John leaned around Mycroft and asked, “Is he awake?”

The nurse shook her head. “He’s calmed down and back to sleep. The poor dear is rather worn out.” There was a tightening of both Mycroft and John’s eyes at that statement. If Sherlock had been properly awake at all in the past hours there was no way a nurse would be using a phrase like _poor dear_ to describe him.

Another nurse stepped out of the room and smiled at them. “All done, you can go in now, but please be quiet.”

In the flourescent lighting Sherlock looked as pale as the sheets. He was sporting a nasal cannula and there was a whisper of oxygenated airflow in the room. There was also the IV line that someone had started, and John was horrified to see that the hand it ran into had been affixed to the bedframe.

John moved over quickly and untied it from the metal. “Jesus, Mycroft. If he starts to wake up and feels he’s restrained…”

Mycroft nodded, his lips thinning angrily. “That was… an oversight. Evidently some of my instructions were not properly communicated.” 

John lowered the bedrail so he could gently hold the hand instead, settling into the plastic chair next to head of the bed. There was a scrape of metal on the floor as Mycroft dragged another chair over, sitting on the same side of the bed, but towards his brother’s feet.

They sat in silence for a while, watching Sherlock sleep. Eventually, Mycroft cleared his throat to catch John’s attention and said, “I almost wasn’t sure whether to tell you this or not, John. But in the end I decided that you would no doubt feel a measure of guilt that you had perhaps done Miss Morstan wrong, despite having entered into your relationship with her free of pretense.” Mycroft fished in the inner breast pocket of his waistcoat and came up with a folded sheet of paper. He handed it to John, then sat back in his chair.

It was a certificate of stillbirth for Mary Elizabeth Morstan. John felt he had been punched. “Does Sherlock know?”

“No. I felt this was for you to decide what to do with.”

He felt dizzy, sick, the letters almost beginning to whirl around on the page in front of him. “Thank you, Mycroft.” They were words that until the day before he never thought he’d say. 

“I haven’t dug particularly more deeply. Just enough to know she assumed the name around the time you met. While she does obviously have medical training, the trail around where she acquired it and under what name is not immediately obvious. I could make further inquiries…”

“No.” John folded the paper in half and handed it back to Mycroft. “I think I’m fine knowing that she lied to me, and that leaving her was definitely for the best.”

“As you wish.”

John rubbed his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand, watching the minute flickers in the features of his face that had largely relaxed in sleep. When Sherlock’s brow twitched and he gave a little groan John quickly stood, unselfconsciously rubbing a hand over the other man’s forehead and stilling the distressed movement before it could grow. John sat back down and found Mycroft watching him closely, a look of fascination that was quickly quelled into the elder Holmes’ usual inscrutable air. 

“How many people did he kill, Mycroft?”

There was a tensing in Mycroft’s jaw that told John he’d hit a nerve. “I don’t know if that’s for me to…”

“I’m asking you, Mycroft. How many? I know about the one in Istanbul. Have you ever seen someone choked to death close up? It’s horrific. They often manage to look right at you, and it’s not silent. There’s thrashing and gurgling and their eyes bulge and they froth and bleed a little from their nose and mouth. And perhaps even worse, you can feel the exact moment that you’ve done it. The exact second they slip away.” John hadn’t done it himself, but he’d seen it first hand in Afghanistan when a patrol went south and they were nearly captured. Had talked to the poor traumatised young man afterwards-- just eighteen years old on his first tour and snuffing a life out with his bare hands.

Mycroft looked stricken. “Do you know what he said to Moriarty? On the roof? He said he was like Moriarty: prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. He said if Moriarty wanted to shake hands in Hell Sherlock would not disappoint him.”

“Jesus.” The exclamation escaped John without him meaning to speak.

“He said he may be on the side of the angels... but not to think for one _second_ he was one of them.” Mycroft regarded John’s vaguely shell shocked expression with a measure of satisfaction and continued, “But since we both know that’s not strictly true, what does that leave us to do?”

John remembered their argument in St. Bart’s on the day of the fall. _Doesn’t she mean anything to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her._ And the damning words again: _you machine!._

When John didn’t speak, Mycroft continued. “Six, that I know of. Likely a few more as collateral damage. For the most part he managed to either get them arrested where they would not be getting out again, or turn on each other and take care of themselves. But there were at least six that he killed himself.”

John buried his face in his free hand.

There was a creak as Mycroft settled further back in his chair. After a moment, he said, “Tell me, John. How do you feel about Suffolk?”


	3. Suffolk

The journey from London had taken almost three hours: Mycroft driving the Land Rover, John in the front passenger seat, and Sherlock sleeping in the back. A second car followed with supplies and presumably the job of ferrying Mycroft back to London. John hadn’t any idea what Mycroft had been thinking when he’d asked about Suffolk, but after three days in the hospital Sherlock’s chest had started to clear up and Mycroft raised the possibility of, as he put it, a break somewhere outside of London. According to Mycroft there were press camped outside of Baker Street, despite the firm statement being put around that no interviews would be conducted. Mrs. Hudson had gone off to stay with her sister to avoid the scramble every time she opened her front door.

Sherlock’s chest was indeed clearing up, but he was still very weak and sleeping most of the time. John suspected that the sheer unpleasantness of Sherlock when he was awake got him discharged from hospital. That and the fact that John was prepared to stay with him in the role of doctor.

They’d left the main road and crunched onto a gravel path, coming over a hill of scrub and heather to find the cottage itself, perfectly situated on a windswept stretch of heath overlooking the sea. “Wow.” John’s eyebrows raised at the view and he thought he detected an ever so slight upturn of Mycroft’s lip in smug response. 

“It was our uncle’s. It hasn’t had any use since he passed away last year, but I had it kept in good repair.”

“Oh.” John tried to gauge the appropriate response to that statement and settled for, “I’m sorry.” Mycroft merely ignored him, already getting out of the vehicle. They left Sherlock asleep in the back seat and carried a few bags up to the door. Mycroft’s man shut off his car further down the drive and began unloading boxes from the boot. 

Mycroft opened the door, handing the key to John once they were inside. The front room had a bay window facing the sea, two comfortable looking armchairs and a fire already burning in the hearth. Waving a hand towards the back of the building, Mycroft said, “Kitchen is through there with a dining table, small study to your right. The master bedroom is upstairs. There’s a vegetable garden in the back, but I’d imagine it’s almost done by now. Maybe some sprouts and winter squash left.

“Are there, uh, two bedrooms?”

Mycroft gave John a look that implied he was being particularly imbecilic. “Naturally. The guest room is also upstairs.”

John felt himself flush and nodded sharply, pushing past Mycroft to tramp upstairs and deposit his bags in the smaller of the two rooms.

He came back downstairs to find Sherlock’s bags in the front hall and a clatter from the kitchen that sounded like things being unloaded into the fridge. Mycroft was standing in the front room looking out at the sea, hands buried in his coat pockets. He was standing erect as always, yet John felt there was a palpable tiredness in Mycroft’s frame, no matter how well masked.

The clattering stopped and the suit clad driver appeared. “That’s all, Mr. Holmes.”

Only then did Mycroft turn around to face John. “I’ll be on my way then.”

“Do you want to…” John indicated the vehicle outside with Sherlock still asleep in the back seat.

“No need for that.” Mycroft shook his head, moving out the front door and down the broad stone steps. He halted for a moment and turned back, almost smiling as he raised one hand in farewell. “Best of luck, John.”

“Thanks, Mycroft. Take care.”

John waited until Mycroft’s car was out of sight over the hill before moving to open the back door of the Land Rover. Sherlock was bundled up in the sort of warm and practical clothes he’d never let himself be seen wearing in London. It took John two tries to shake him awake. Eventually, confused blue eyes blinked open and tracked over to settle on his face.

“Hey, we’re here. Time to come inside.”

“Mycroft?” Sherlock’s voice was more gravelly than normal.

“Already gone. He’s been getting very twitchy about the amount of time he’s been spending _not_ ruling over the free world.” That got him a smile and Sherlock began to slowly unfold himself, wincing as still sore bruises and cuts were bumped. John guided him out of the vehicle and felt the moment he took a deep breath of the sea air, not coughing for the first time since the pneumonia took hold. John kept a smile in response well hidden, saying instead, “Come on, let’s get you inside and in bed.”

“All I’ve been doing is sleeping!” The petulance that had tested the patience of the nurses in London was in full force, but John only rolled his eyes.

Ignoring Sherlock was always the best course of action when a mood threatened, so John did just that. “And that would be because you need it.”

Despite his protests, Sherlock was breathless by the time they got him inside and upstairs. John left him sitting on the edge of the bed and brought his bags upstairs as well. “Do you want your pyjamas? I think they’re in this one somewhere along with your dressing gown.”

Sherlock shook his head, cross at being defeated by his own body. “No, I’ll lie down like this.” The petulance was still there, but underscored by something leaning more towards depressed.

“Hey,” John crouched next to the bed and set a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. The other man didn’t shy away from the contact so John gave a gentle squeeze. “It’s okay. It’s just going to take a little time to get to you back to sorts.” Sherlock nodded, mutely. “Come on.” John reached down, untied, and removed Sherlock’s shoes, the gesture oddly intimate. “You stretch out and you’ll have more energy after a nap. You’ll see.”

Sherlock looked skeptical and clearly had to bite back a comment about being coddled, but followed the instruction. John noted that he still naturally preferred to settle on his stomach, and hoped that the spell flat on his back in hospital hadn’t interrupted the healing of his wounds. There was a blanket folded on the foot of the bed so John pulled it up and over the other man, letting it fall as gently as possibly. He could hear Sherlock grumbling into the pillow, but it was a sleepy sort of grumble so John flicked off the lights and tiptoed back downstairs to explore further.

# # # # #

It was a gray day, patches of sun and cloud alternated swiftly with a drizzle of rain. The cab stopped in front of the hospital with a scream of brakes. He threw a bill and handful of change into the money tray before clambering out.

 _Keep your eyes fixed on me._ The words echoed, more loudly than they should have. John felt it again, the roiling, twisting fear deep in his gut. He could see Sherlock on top of the building. John’s heart was pounding, but his legs were frozen. He tried to move and couldn't. Sherlock tossed the phone to the side, raised his arms and let himself tip forward off the ledge. John moaned in response: deep, primal pain.

Sherlock's coat was flapping around him and then he began to come apart. Ravens. A hundred of them: shrieking and falling. At the last second the column of birds swerved, levelling out before they hit the ground and coming straight at him. They enveloped him, cawing, cutting, _hurting_ him. He couldn't breathe. Panic clawed its way up his tightened throat and he woke with a yell, startled to find himself sitting in a chair. 

John was ashamed to find his face wet, heart pounding, it took a minute to remember where he was. He could see the sea… Suffolk? He was in Suffolk, and Sherlock was asleep upstairs. John sank back into the chair in relief and swiped at his treacherous eyes with the palm of his hand. His heart was still beating far too rapidly. It was one of the same nightmares again; God, he thought he’d got over them. 

There was a faint chiming from the wall clock in the entryway-- three o’clock. He’d only left Sherlock upstairs an hour ago and had intended to just sit and admire the view. John stretched, feeling joints popping from too many hours in plastic hospital chairs. A flash of colour outside caught his eye and hauled himself to his feet to find an older woman and a dog making their way up the footpath towards the cottage.

John swiped at his eyes again and wished he could blow his nose, but she was going to be at the door. He headed her off, pulling the door open just as she reached for the iron knocker.

“Oh!” She jumped backwards, and the chocolate labrador next to her gave a little whuff of surprise as well.

“Hello, sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” John smiled winningly and the dog’s tail began to wag in response.

“Oh, hello!” She was wearing an oilcloth jacket, practical trousers, a pair of Hunter boots and looked to be well into her fifties, not that John considered himself a good judge of age. “Mycroft telephoned and asked me to come by earlier and set the fire. Is Sherlock in? I’m Moira Adams from down the road.” She waved vaguely in the direction of the nearest village, a good five miles away.

The welcoming fire despite the locked door suddenly made sense. “Oh, thank you then. I’m John. John Watson.” He offered a hand and she shook it firmly. “I’m afraid Sherlock is resting at the moment-- he hasn’t been very well.”

She smiled warmly and nodded. “I wondered. The papers left a lot out, but it sounded like a very trying time. I’d just thought I’d check by and see if there was anything you needed?”

John didn’t want to admit he hadn’t made it into the kitchen yet, but assumed Mycroft’s provisioning could be trusted. “I think we’re well sorted here, but thank you.”

She smiled warmly, “Well you know where I am if you need anything. Sherlock used to come here in the summer you know. You’d see him and Graham, his late uncle, that is, walking along the beach conducting their science experiments.”

“Oh,” John didn’t want to admit Sherlock had never mentioned coming to Suffolk, “that’s lovely. I’m sure he used to enjoy it.”

“Now I have…” She fished in a cloth bag John hadn’t noticed and came up with a glass jar, “in case it was Sherlock who was coming rather than Mycroft. Here.” She handed it over and gave him a wink more suited to a woman half her age. “Just a little something for Sherlock.”

“Cheers. I’ll pass it on.” John took the offering and stepped back, “Is there any message or…?”

“Oh, don’t worry, dear.” She laughed and waved a hand, already stepping down from the doorstep. “He’ll know who it’s from.” She whistled for the dog, still interested in sniffing John’s trousers, and they both headed down the path towards the sea.

John watched them go, then pulled the heavy wooden door shut. The jar she had given him was small, with a number that looked like “A-3-2013” penciled onto a paper label. He tipped it sideways and between the colour and the viscosity decided it must be honey. 

The cottage was still begging to be explored so he went through in search of the kitchen and found a small, bright room overlooking a garden with vegetable patch. It was a tasteful place, with the easy comfort that spoke of a fair amount of money propping it up. Mycroft, John supposed, or the previous owner. The fridge proved to be full with everything from steaks to beer and wine. Perhaps somewhat ambitious given Sherlock’s current condition, but a nice gesture nonetheless. Telling himself it was late enough in the afternoon, John helped himself to a beer, put the honey on the counter, and went back into the entryway. 

The study was just as Mycroft had described it: small, but to John it also had the same tasteful country aesthetic as the rest of the place. A floor to ceiling bookshelf covered one wall, a grandfather clock ticked softly, and a heavy wooden desk faced another window overlooking the sea. The desk had obviously been well used as there was faint scarring from cigarette ash and light rings left by a small glass-- sherry or port? John smiled to himself at the now automatic urge to deduce, still present after Sherlock’s absence.

The traces of burns and stains were the only remnant of the former occupant that John had seen in the cottage. Exploring the bookcase proved the mysterious uncle's tastes were broad: physics, biology, a few novels, sheet music and even a slim volume on beekeeping. There was a small picture frame tucked into the top shelf. John gently pulled it out and found a childhood photo of what was unmistakably Sherlock and Redbeard in front of the cottage. The flowers were in bloom and from the bright sunshine it was clearly summertime. The boy in the photo looked happy; the smile genuine as he crouched to sling skinny arms around the dog's neck. John hadn't spared much time to imagine Sherlock's childhood before, but found himself feeling almost relieved by the photo.

He tucked it back onto the shelf, taking another sip of beer as he wandered back into the main room. There were soft noises upstairs that sounded like Sherlock was awake, so John went into the kitchen and made two cups of tea, plus some toast for Sherlock. It wasn’t until John started up the stairs that he realised it was Sherlock’s voice he’d heard, talking softly. A stair creaked under his weight and the sound paused, then continued again in a softer murmur.

John hovered at the top of the stairs, uncertain of his welcome. Sherlock normally preferred to text-- an actual phone conversation was an odd enough event to not want to disrupt. 

“Yes, John, I would like a cup of tea.”

John flushed, then squared his shoulders and carefully carried the tray into the bedroom. Sherlock tossed his recently procured mobile onto the nightstand and sat up further, still flinching slightly when his back pressed against the headboard. He’d managed to change into his pyjamas while John was downstairs and looked significantly more rested than earlier. 

John set down the tray, passed Sherlock one steaming mug, then returned with the plate of toast he’d prepared. He held up the jar by way of explanation and said, “I'm assuming it's honey, but I'm sure there's jam downstairs if you'd prefer.”

Sherlock snatched the little jar out of his hand and examined the label, crowing in delight, “Apiary 3! She’s expanded again.”

John felt something begin to glow in his chest at Sherlock’s demeanour as he tilted the jar to examine the consistency, then opened the top and carefully sniffed. Relief, John told himself. Sheer, bloody marvelous relief that Sherlock was here and breathing and _smiling_. And over a jar of honey of all things. Blissfully unaware of the other man, Sherlock had moved to tasting. Gently touching the tip of one long index finger to the surface and then bringing it to his lips.

“You know there is toast for that, Sherlock.” John held out the teaspoon he found downstairs and laughed at the put upon sigh the gesture earned him.

Sherlock took the spoon, but groused as he did, “You have to try it first without any contaminants. I wrote a blog entry on the one-hundred and twenty-five most common pollens to find in honey, and their general contribution to colour, flavour and consistency.” He dipped the tip of the spoon in the jar and proceeded to lick a small bead of honey off the tip.

“Was that for a case? Not your normal subject matter.” John couldn’t imagine how it could be relevant to a murder. There’d be a good blog title in it though, _A Sticky End_ , perhaps.

Sherlock scoffed, “Hardly, it’s just interesting.”

 _“It’s just interesting?”_ John raised an eyebrow for effect and crossed his arms skeptically. “The man who didn’t know about the solar system did something because it was _‘just interesting’_?”

Sherlock didn’t look up from where he was finally slathering a slice of toast in honey, only speaking once he already had a mouthful. “Not everything I do has to have a reason John.”

John's phone buzzed once in his pocket: a text alert. Probably Harry, he thought. Or worse, Mary. Perhaps he’d forgotten something at the flat. Not wanting to look, but knowing he wouldn’t relax again until he knew what it was, he slipped the phone out and thumbed it unlocked. _He looked sad, when he thought you couldn't see him._ Molly Hooper's number; still the same as before. 

John felt rooted to the spot, even as Sherlock was happily starting on a second piece of toast. When had she seen them? She must mean before. Perhaps the day before, when they were at Bart’s together. John remembered Molly in the lab with them at Bart’s; for some reason remembered how she’d bitten her lip at one point, when she’d looked at him. It was strange the moments he could remember from two years before. 

His phone buzzed again. _I’m sorry I wasn’t around. Didn’t ask how you were. I’d promised to help him, but I didn’t think I could lie to you. Not like that._

Jesus, he thought. Je-sus. Molly Hooper: in on the plot to fake Sherlock’s death. He wondered how long they had known each other. Clearly well before he’d met Sherlock, if the riding crop in the mortuary was anything to go by. That’s not something a casual acquaintance can get away with. He suddenly felt ashamed he’d never asked how they met.

The screen powered off to black: he’d been holding it for too long without doing anything. He thumbed it back on and texted: _I understand, Molly. Thank you for helping him._

He turned the mobile all the way off before any reply could come through and shoved it more deeply into his pocket. John turned back to find Sherlock had finished the toast and was cupping the mug of tea in one hand, eyes flickering as he deduced.

John braced himself, but instead of commenting on the messages Sherlock merely flicked at the blanket with his free hand, making a disgusted face as he said, “Now there are crumbs in here.”

“Your crumbs, not mine.”

Sherlock took a sip of tea, muttering over the rim of his mug, “It’ll be your crumb problem too when we get mice.”

John found himself settling into their easy banter and releasing a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “You could write a blog post: the precise time elapsed between crumb output and mouse arrival. Very helpful for timing people’s last meals. It’ll make for fascinating reading. We’ll get loads of clients.”

“I don’t do children or animals.”

“I seem to remember us breaking into a secret government facility to do both in the case of the vanishing glowing rabbit.”

Sherlock smiled fondly, “Ah, Bluebell.”

John stuck a finger in the air between them, wagging it accusingly as he said, “I still haven’t forgiven you for drugging me.”

“I didn’t drug you.” Sherlock shrugged as if the technicality made all the difference, “I only tried. You managed to drug yourself in the end.”

John felt the old argument surface and played the same role he always did, “You made me think I was being chased by a giant murderous hound!”

Sherlock nodded and helpfully supplied, “With glowing red eyes.”

“Bit not good, Sherlock.” John pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand, but the words were too played out to have much heat in them anymore, “That was a bit not good.”

Sherlock had the gall to sound ever so slightly smug, “It was also effective.”

“You had a dog when you were little.” Sherlock blinked in surprise, but didn’t respond. “There’s a photo downstairs in the study.” He wasn’t going to mention his previous conversation with Mycroft. John felt something piece together and continued, “Is that why you took the Bluebell case?”

There was silence for a moment, then Sherlock answered, “I don’t like lying to children. Especially not about things like that.” He said it evenly and completely seriously, with as much dignity as a man of his age in crumb covered pyjamas could muster.

John felt that glow come back in his chest. He remembered the little girls in their front room in Baker Street and Sherlock saying, _People don't really go to heaven when they die. They're taken to a special room and burned._ “Oh, you silly sod,” the great affection in his tone belied the words themselves, and won a small smile from Sherlock as well.

The cottage was warm enough throughout that John let himself be swayed by a spectacular bout of petulance and helped Sherlock downstairs for the rest of the afternoon and evening. If he were honest with himself there was a selfish truth that John preferred having Sherlock downstairs in the front room with him as well. Sherlock spent the time absorbed in his laptop, although there were moments when John looked up from his book and caught the detective staring out the window. 

Sherlock managed to eat some soup, although not as much as John would have liked. Despite protests to the contrary he was clearly tired not long after, so John helped him back upstairs and left him to presumably nod off over his laptop in bed.

John built up the fire again and turned down the electric lights, content to enjoy the warmer glow from the hearth. He jotted off an email to Harry, explaining the situation, and another to the GP clinic extending his leave of absence and stating that he understood if they preferred to fill his position with someone more permanent. It had been a miserable clinic, anyway, with a funny smell in the basement examination rooms that he always seemed to get stuck in.

The chair was comfortable so he set aside his laptop and settled in more deeply with a novel he’d found in the study. It was absorbing… so much so that he didn’t notice when the fire burnt out. John simply surfaced from the story to find it was suddenly darker. The fire was out, and there was no light from the lamp in the corner he’d left on low. Too dark to see properly, and not remembering the layout of the room, he set the book aside and reached out to find the small table next to the chair. He grabbed a wrist. 

It was unmistakably human skin. Anxiety flashed through him, hot and sharp. Heart thudding, he felt the cold skin, the lack of pulse. “No,” he said aloud, “No, no no.” And he was on his knees and there was Sherlock’s face, covered in lines of blood with more pouring out from under his head and those open, staring, lifeless eyes. “No. Jesus, no.” 

There were no other people. No hands pulling him back. It was wrong, it felt so wrong and yet it was real. Had been real, he managed to tell himself. _This_ couldn’t be real. And then he was awake. Again. In the same chair as earlier that afternoon, with the same pounding heart and wet face. The fire had indeed died, but the lamp cast a soft glow into the room.

John sat until his heart calmed down, hating every treacherous minute that it continued to pound. He’d never have thought before that anything could be worse than the nightmares from Afghanistan, but these were somehow. 

By degrees, John felt he returned to himself, although his skin was clammy and he felt shaken. He got up and found his limp had come back, ever so slightly, as he made his way into the kitchen for a glass of water. The water helped, as did simply being up and walking around. It was after midnight so he tiptoed his way upstairs, past Sherlock's closed door and to his own room. 

He changed quickly, retrieved his toothbrush and ventured back into the hallway. Sherlock's door was still closed, without any sign of light leaking around the edges. Asleep then, John thought. The toilet was just around the corner, but John found himself hovering outside the closed bedroom door. Sherlock is sleeping, he told himself firmly, noting with dismay that his body had other ideas as his hand moved to the door.

He opened the door slowly, softly, and peered into the room. He could just make out a figure sprawled face down on the bed. John froze, listening, but Sherlock’s form was still, and he couldn’t make out any sounds of breathing.

He’s asleep, John told himself again, just asleep, his breathing is muffled in the pillows. 

The seconds ticked by, but John continued to vacillate in the doorway. The vision from his nightmare was still there: the memory of the open, blank eyes. He knew Sherlock was fine: safe and breathing. And yet…

The floor creaked softly underfoot as John made his way over to the bed. Sherlock was a dark blur against the white pillows. John slowly crouched by the head of the bed, and there it was: muffled, but audible breathing. He should leave, he knew, but he continued to crouch and listen to the slow breaths in and out.

Suddenly, the breathing stopped. Not thinking clearly, John leaned forwards to better hear what had happened, which meant when Sherlock abruptly rolled over their foreheads almost touched. 

John reeled back, staggering to his feet as he apologised, “I’m sorry.” He stumbled backwards and his foot knocked into the bedside table with a painful thud. “Sorry, Jesus, I’ll just…” 

“John?” Sherlock propped himself up on an elbow. With only low light filtering in from the hallway his eyes glinted in the gloom; colourless. His voice was thick with sleep and confusion, “What are you doing?”

Mortified, his foot throbbing painfully, John hopped one further step back from the bed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I was just… checking on you.” He finished lamely, painfully aware it wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny. He wished he could see Sherlock’s face, and at the same time was relieved he couldn’t.

Sherlock must have squinted slightly because the reflected light from his eyes dimmed. “Sit down.” He slid back, making room at the edge of the bed. When John only gaped at him in return, he clarified, “Your foot must hurt. Sit down.”

John didn’t want to admit it, but his foot was killing him. He felt his way forward in the low light and perched on the edge of the bed, taking his foot firmly between his hands and massaging it. Focusing on the injury rather than the other man, he willed himself to get his breathing back under control and think of a more plausible excuse for his presence in the room. 

Before John could come up with something to say, Sherlock spoke, “You had a nightmare.” It wasn’t a question, and when John didn’t respond the assertion was confirmed. Sherlock cleared his throat and asked, “Was it about me?”

“Yes.” John kept his body turned away from the other man, methodically rubbing away the pain in his foot. “Yes it was. I keep having them. It was after you fell.”

Something slid over the sheets and pressed next to his thigh. John reached down in the dark and felt Sherlock’s wrist. Compulsively, he let go of his foot and gripped the wrist, feeling the pulse beating reassuringly under his fingertips.

They sat like that for a handful of heartbeats, then Sherlock said, “I had one too.” John did twist towards the other man then, moving further onto the bed as he did so. “There was one in Serbia. A nasty piece of work: trafficked children. I left him to drown and don’t feel any regret whatsoever. There were three that fancied themselves bombmakers. Rudimentary things packed with nails. I altered their chemicals and they blew themselves up. I watched the explosion to make sure it got them all. You know about Istanbul, of course.” 

John didn’t dare move, almost didn’t dare breathe in case it disrupted Sherlock’s story. Sherlock shifted slightly on his elbow, the position awkward with John still holding his wrist, and continued softly, “And there was a woman. It was in New York. I watched her for a week to be sure it was just her. She was brilliant; reminded me of Irene Adler, but smarter. She was young, mid-twenties at most, and I thought maybe I didn’t have to kill her. Maybe I could turn her-- she hadn’t actually done anything yet, but she knew the plan and she was a failsafe. There were instructions to act that came directly from Moriarty.”

Sherlock breathed a sigh and said, “And I was wrong. She loved Moriarty, and I didn’t see it. She didn’t even believe he was dead.” He took a shuddering breath and admitted, “I botched it: didn’t go in well prepared and had to finish it with a knife. It was… slow.” John could feel Sherlock’s pulse accelerating out of control, indicating a near panic at the memory. “And in my dreams there’s the blood and the knife… and it’s your face, John. It’s always you.”

Acting without thinking, John pulled the other man to him. Releasing Sherlock’s wrist and gathering the detective in his arms, he held firmly until the tension and panic finally began to drain away. In the darkness, John was as comforted by the warm armful of breathing detective as Sherlock seemed to be by the embrace. Sherlock’s head was tucked under his chin, and John allowed himself to brush his cheek against the soft curls. At length, John spoke, “What a pair we are, Sherlock.” There was almost the same bemusement as there had been at Buckingham palace, _what are we doing here, Sherlock? Seriously, what?_

Sherlock made a choking noise that could almost have been a laugh, leaning further into the contact than John would have ever thought possible. John gave a squeeze in return, suddenly mindful of Sherlock’s back. He started to pull away, but found Sherlock’s arms had snaked around his waist and were holding tightly. And oh, John marvelled, it felt _right_. He found himself gripping the other man in return, fiercely, desperately, as if he could erase all the pain and sorrow of the last two years from both of them. And then, John felt it: where his pyjama shirt wasn’t quite done up there was the faintest brush of lips against his collarbone.

John stilled entirely, thoughts flying through his head almost too rapidly to process. Is this what it was like to be Sherlock? Mind an engine racing out of control. What he’d felt was unmistakable. Ignore it? Pretend he hadn’t felt it? Try to forget? _Make himself forget?_ But in the dark, so many more things seemed possible than in the light. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t move: knowing he was caught, but refusing to acknowledge it.

“Sherlock, hey,” John ran a hand through curls that were as soft as he’d imagined, “It’s okay.” He tousled them again, softly, for good measure, “Really, it’s all fine.”

Only then did Sherlock move, unfolding and slithering up John’s body until he was sitting facing the other man, so close his breath brushed the other man’s cheek. In the near darkness there wasn’t any expression to read, just an impression of features. Features that were moving closer. _Oh_ , thought John, _oh my_. And that was the last conscious thought he had before Sherlock’s slips closed over his own.

It was an unpracticed kiss: tentative, and more than a little awkward. There was a slight rasp of stubble and a scent of cologne that was entirely masculine, yet John found himself responding. He deepened the kiss and Sherlock made a little noise of surprise, responding eagerly, almost desperately. 

They pulled apart, breathing heavily. John reached up and cupped Sherlock’s jaw in one hand, dragging his thumb over the other man’s cheekbones, touching what he couldn’t see. “John, I…” Sherlock tilted his head into the touch and spoke in an urgent rush, “I find myself caring deeply for you. And I have for some time.” Sherlock licked his lips and repeated, “For quite some time.” The awkward declaration was touching in its forthrightness. 

“Sentiment, Sherlock?” There was no heat or question behind the words, only fondness. John smiled in the dark, chest aglow with feelings he’d never given words to before. “I love you too.” And he leaned back in and captured Sherlock’s lips.

It was… delightful, touching, tender, a host of words John had never actively associated with Sherlock. He wondered at the fact that this Sherlock must have been there all along. Unbidden, a thought crossed John’s mind and he broke the kiss to ask, “Did you… deduce me? The day after we met? In Angelo’s.” He wasn’t asking it right, and stumbling over himself, “You thought I was coming on to you, but I wasn’t. I told you I wasn’t gay.” 

John could sense the other man attempting to gauge him without being able to see. Sherlock interrupted John’s stammering and said, “I thought it might be a possibility.”

“You’re not usually wrong about things like that.” John almost laughed, but it came out as more of a choked gasp, “You never miss the ones in the closet on the Jeremy Kyle show.”

Sherlock pulled back further, adopting a pose more suited to his normal thinking as he recollected, “Your respiration had increased when you handed me your phone. Very slightly. Your pupils dilated when we made direct eye contact examining Jennifer Wilson’s body and I don’t think you’re a necrophiliac… and even then without knowing you a reasonable balance of probability would have you more likely attracted to me than her. The way you wet your lips when you were asking if I had a boyfriend, compulsive, and not your normal,” Sherlock paused in rattling off his deduction, suddenly uncertain. “Bit not good?”

“No.” John let out a shaky breath, “No, it’s fine.” Had he really known himself so poorly? And how much time had he wasted? Missing the contact, he reached out again and cupped Sherlock’s cheek. “Look at us, Sherlock. After Baskerville, Moriarty, you tearing a bomb off me in a swimming pool, the worst two years of our lives… and it took sitting in the dark in a cottage in Suffolk to finally see what was there all along.” He rubbed his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone again. “Imagine what we’ll get up to if we stay here very long.” 

“John,” the smile could be heard in Sherlock’s voice, “this is my cottage now. We can stay here as long as we like.”

John did laugh at that, in relief and all sorts of emotions that threatened to overtake him. He reached out and gathered Sherlock to him again, lying down and pulling the other man with him. Sherlock followed willingly, settling with his head on John’s good shoulder and his back in the air. John pulled the blankets loosely over them both and pressed his lips briefly on the top of Sherlock’s head. “Sleep now. Maybe this will keep away the nightmares.”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock’s voice rumbled in his chest, already sounding weary, “I imagine it will.” He wriggled into a slightly more comfortable position and said, “Good night, John.”

John smiled broadly in the darkness. “Good night, Sherlock.”


	4. Back to Baker Street

Three days in Suffolk, alone in the cottage that Sherlock had inherited during his absence. Contrary to expectations, they were not completely stir crazy by the time Mycroft texted to say that he would be coming up for Sunday lunch. “Does that mean,” John had asked, “that I’m expected to _cook_ Sunday lunch.”

Sherlock had smirked. “I’d trust him to bring cake, but yes, that is probably the general idea.”

And that was how John found himself wrestling a whole chicken into a roasting pan and stuffing cloves of garlic into unmentionable places. Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, properly dressed in one of his dress shirts for the first time since they came to Suffolk. The guest bedroom upstairs was still unused, a fact John still couldn’t quite believe at times.

John shoved the pan into the oven with more force than was strictly necessary and moved on to slicing the tips off green beans as he asked, “Why is Mycroft coming up from London?”

Sherlock shrugged, making the most of being excused from helping, “He’s been alone for two years too. He should have got himself a…” Sherlock looked up to find John watching him and trailed off more softly, “goldfish.”  
John frowned, “What?”

“Nevermind.” Quickly changing the subject, he said, “Can you please relax this ridiculous ban on working and let me get a case from Lestrade?”

“You’re supposed to be resting.” John pointed the knife at Sherlock as he reminded the other man, “It was a condition of you being let out of the hospital. No cases until you’re better.”

“Resting?” Sherlock frowned, “Resting’s boring. I’ve been resting for days. I need a case!” He drummed his fingers impatiently on the table to underscore his point and John relented.

“Fine. I’ll see if Greg can slip us a cold case file. Maybe a nice locked room murder.” He swept the bean tips into the compost with the edge of the knife and wiped his hands on a dishtowel. “I think we’re ready for Mycroft.” The thought of being deduced by the elder Holmes made him uncomfortable. This thing between himself and Sherlock didn’t feel fragile, but it certainly felt new. Too new, almost, and not ready to be shared. “I think I need to start on the wine before he gets here.”

Sherlock flipped to the next page of the journal article he was reading and quipped without looking up, “It’s good to know I’m not the only one moved to drink by my brother.”

John rolled his eyes and went rummaging in the fridge, emerging with a bottle of white wine. He read the label, wishing he was more versed in the subject. “Could be good with chicken?” The bottle had been set suggestively next to the bird when the fridge had been loaded, and John figured he could trust the judgement of Mycroft’s minions better than his own. _Familiar, but with the quality of surprise_. John laughed at the words on the label, “If those words ever actually came out of someone’s mouth I’d probably punch them.” 

John poured himself a glass, and when Sherlock held a hand in the air reluctantly poured a small glass for the other man as well. He deposited the smaller glass into the raised hand, then gently clinked his own glass against it. Sherlock hadn’t looked up from his reading. “Cheers, Sherlock.”

“Oh, ah, right.” Sherlock did look up then. “Cheers,” but after briefly making eye contact was right back to his chemistry papers.

John rolled his eyes, but fondly, and left the kitchen, wandering through to the front room to admire the view. It was a sunny day, but they hadn’t been out in the morning. In truth, they hadn’t been out much at all in the last few days: only managing a brief walk the day before in order to get Sherlock some fresh air and exercise.

He loved this cottage already; would love to see it in the spring and summertime. Would love to see it in the winter snow with a warm fire in the hearth. At the same time, he missed London. Knowing that Baker Street was there, waiting for them both, was almost more than he could bear to be away from. He took a sip of the wine (excellent, even to his somewhat unrefined palate) and moved to stand directly in the bay window, watching the pattern of wind on the sea. John imagined Baker Street, something he hadn’t let himself do in so very long: the science experiments in the kitchen, their chairs by the fire, the skull on the mantle. In his mind’s eye they were seated in their chairs, or Sherlock was standing in the window, playing his violin. Of course, it wasn’t going to be like before. It _couldn’t_ be like before. 

John smiled, unseen. He wondered if he’d bother moving his things into the upstairs bedroom, or if he should suggest it as a more permanent venue for the science experiments. Sherlock would probably say he needed a source of water nearby, and if he were honest, he enjoying having Sherlock at the kitchen table with his microscope. He took another sip of wine and his smile turned slightly wicked: they’d need to buy a bigger bed for Sherlock’s room. And God only knew how he would make room for John in the dresser without having to abandon his sock index.

# # # # # #

Mycroft had arrived precisely on time, bearing cake just as Sherlock had predicted, and also two cold case files from Scotland Yard. Evidently, he’d anticipated his brother’s boredom. The deduction John had been dreading all morning took place in the half second after he opened the front door. Mycroft’s eyes ran over John once and the corner of his lip turned up ever so slightly. John braced himself, but Mycroft had merely said, “Congratulations,” then stepped past him into the cottage and invited himself into the front room.

Lunch had actually been pleasant. John was still getting used to this version of Mycroft Holmes. The man was still reserved, even cool at times, but also proving to be surprisingly thoughtful. When John caught himself actually laughing at an anecdote that Mycroft had shared after lunch, and an answering smile on the other man’s face as well, he’d had to excuse himself to the kitchen. The remains of their lunch littered the surfaces and sink and John had to move a glass in order to quickly splash some water on his face. That the most dangerous man in Britain was currently in his front room drinking port and telling stories was almost too hard to believe.

John got himself a glass of water as a pretence, and as he turned off the tap caught a snatch of conversation from the front room: “I’m not lonely, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice, affronted, confused even.

And Sherlock’s response, soft and pointed, “How would you know?”

The subject changed swiftly when he re-entered the front room, with Mycroft finishing his port and standing. “It’s about time I took my leave and got back to London. Thank you for lunch, John.”

“Oh, well, thank you for the cake… and for buying all the things for lunch as well, I’d imagine.”

Mycroft smiled and rocked on his heels, waiting until he had Sherlock’s attention as well to say, “There’s also the small matter of your return to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson has been back since Friday and I’d imagine is eagerly anticipating your continued presence. If, of course, that is what you desire.”

Sherlock scoffed immediately, “Of course we’re going back to Baker Street!” 

Mycroft nodded, but John had spotted the brief flash of relief that had welled up and been suppressed. “And is there a timeline in mind? Your things have all been put back to rights.”

Sherlock caught John’s eye and raised an eyebrow, to which John gave a small nod. “Tomorrow.” Sherlock turned his gaze back to his brother, “We’ll go back tomorrow.”

“I’ll send a car for eleven?”

“Please.” John smiled in appreciation, “Thank you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft moved towards the door and John followed to see him out. It was already dark and a wind had come up, the sound of the waves loud. Mycroft extended a hand, and when John took it to shake found himself pulled outside and beyond Sherlock’s earshot. 

“We’re family now, John,” something almost predatory glittered in Mycroft’s eyes. “Do try not to disappoint.” With that, he released the doctor and crunched down the gravel to his car. John stood outside as Mycroft started the car, shivering slightly as the wind cut through the weave of his jumper. He watched until Mycroft’s taillights disappeared over the hill, then made his way back inside.

Sherlock was still sitting in his chair, watching the fire and nursing a glass of port. He didn’t look up from the fire as he said, “Mycroft came to Serbia looking for me.”

“What?” John sank down into his own chair, still shaken by the elder Holmes’ declaration on the doorstep. “When?”

“Earlier this year. When I was taken. It was the last place he knew I was.”

“Oh.” John conjured up an image of Mycroft wearing a winter cap; attempting to blend in. “I can’t imagine..”

“I can’t either. He hates getting his hands dirty. Had to learn the language as well, just in case.” Sherlock took another sip of port, frowning slightly and following it up with a larger swig.

John set his glass down and moved over to crouch in front of Sherlock’s chair. He waited until the other man stopped swirling his port and gave him a quick kiss. “Come to bed.”

Sherlock twisted to look at John’s watch in confusion, “It’s only seven o’clock.”

“Come to bed anyway.”

“We should tidy-up…”

“It’s our last night here, Sherlock.” He captured Sherlock’s lips again, more firmly and with no small amount of promise, “Come to bed.” 

_“Oh.”_ It was amazing slow Sherlock could be at times. “Oh, of course. Yes. Bed.”

John laughed as Sherlock’s brain caught up with his suggestion and followed the detective as he bolted up the stairs. They had been sharing a bed for the last three nights, but nothing more than simply holding each other had taken place. Holding seemed to keep the nightmares at bay, for both of them. But tonight, for their last night in the cottage, John felt ready to do more.

He unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt, pushing it down off his shoulders and chuckling as the tight material became trapped on Sherlock’ biceps. While Sherlock struggled to untangle himself, John pulled his own jumper off and unbuttoned his jeans, stepping out of them before coming to the other man’s rescue. Sherlock rocked slightly on his feet and he realised that the detective was just a little bit drunk- mentally counting back John came up with two, maybe three, glasses of wine and one glass of port. Not a significant amount given the time frame, but Sherlock was still very thin and who knew when he’d last had anything to drink.

Sherlock stumbled slightly trying to get out of his trousers and John caught him by the elbows saying, “Hey, hey, easy. I didn’t realise you were partway potted.” For some reason this made Sherlock start giggling as he wiggled his legs back and forth in a vain effort to free his feet. 

“I’m stuck, John!” He tried to kick his foot free and almost kicked himself for his trouble. 

John sidestepped the flailing limb and upgraded partway to potted proper. Sherlock must have topped up his own glass at some point, and apparently more than once. “Here, just,” he guided Sherlock backwards to the edge of the bed, “sit down.” John knelt, stripped off the offending garment, and looked up to find Sherlock smiling beatifically at him.

So much for his plans. “Alright, you. Bed.” Sherlock’s smile widened and John shook his head with a fond smile, leaning down to place a more chaste kiss on the other man's lips. "To sleep," he clarified.

If Sherlock hadn't been inebriated he would have protested, but instead flopped down with a twist to bury his face in the pillows, reaching back with one imperious hand to pull John down next to him.

"Just a sec, the light is still on." 

John tried to extricate himself to reach the switch, but Sherlock's grip tightened and he grunted something into the pillow that sounded like, "spinning."

John snorted, "Got the spins, have you? Only yourself to blame for that." He took pity and shifted slightly out from Sherlock's grip in order to bury a hand gently in the other man's hair. "Just ride it out and sleep if you can. You'll be motionless and feeling terrible in the morning, don't you worry."

Sherlock made a disgusted sound, but relaxed under John’s hand. 

John gently carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair, enjoying the intimacy of the gesture. In the light he could see that there were in fact several strands of colour in the curls, some clearly remnants of a lighter haired child. There were also just a few strands of gray well hidden at the temples-- considering his age Sherlock was faring very well. By degrees, Sherlock relaxed under his hand until it felt like he was asleep. John continued the gentle motion until he heard a soft snore, but then his hand only stilled.

Sherlock's back was bare and in the light from the lamp the cross-crossing of scars and still livid wounds was a stark contrast with his pale skin. "Oh, Sherlock," John whispered, "I'm so sorry." He knew he couldn't say it properly in the daylight. Not now-- not without it being taken as pity. He reached down and gently ran a finger over an older mark on the other man's shoulder: well healed, but with a thin ribbon of shiny scar tissue. 

There were so many lines marring the once smooth skin. John followed his finger with his lips and gently kissed his way down the scar, softly, reverently. One led into another, and he kissed that one too, then a third, before pulling back and settling on his elbow. The light stayed on for a long time as John continued to lightly run his fingers over Sherlock’s back, lost in thought.

# # # # # #

There was sunlight streaming in through the window and hitting his face. John grimaced and squinted; he’d forgotten to close the curtains the night before. There was also an arm slung across his abdomen; the masculine weight something he was still getting used to. Following the arm led to the bare back of a consulting detective with his face buried deeply in the pillows. Mindful of how much Sherlock had to drink the night before, John carefully slipped out of bed without waking the other man.

The kitchen was still a disaster and there were empty glasses in the front room. John tidied up methodically, did the dishes and set everything in the drying board before making himself a cup of tea. Still only wearing his pants he puttered back upstairs and packed his few belongings back into his bags, then dressed in jeans and a comfortable jumper for the ride back to London. Baker Street was waiting; he found his heart beating more quickly at the thought. 

The clock downstairs chimed softly and he hurried back to the kitchen and made two cups of tea, carrying the other one with him as a peace offering when he slipped into the master bedroom. Sherlock hadn’t stirred, despite having gone to bed over twelve hours previously. He still needed rest, however much he would deny it.

John set the tea on the table and gently perched on the side of the bed. There was no movement from the occupant, so John bent down and placed a kiss on the nape of Sherlock’s neck, just before the line of the curls. “Time to get up.”

“Mpf,” huffed the pillow, and the head tried simultaneously to press back towards John and burrow more deeply away from the light.

“I’ve brought tea.”

There was distinctly more interest in that, with the head tilting sideways and almost revealing an eye.

John was going to have to pull out all the stops. “And I could do with a kiss, if I’m honest.”

Sherlock did roll over then, groaning when the light hit his headache. John chuckled and bent down to capture the requested kiss. He picked up the second mug of tea as Sherlock struggled to work himself into a sitting position then handed it over, waiting to speak until after the other man had taken a sip. “Mycroft’s car will be here in less than an hour. I’ve packed up my things and you don’t have much. Can you manage some breakfast? Eggs?”

Sherlock blanched slightly and shook his head. “Just toast, please.”

“Alright,” he pecked Sherlock quickly on the lips, “have your tea, have a shower, shove your things away then come downstairs for toast and we’ll wait for the car.”

Sherlock nodded, grimacing at the motion and John had to smother a chuckle as he took his own tea and slipped back out of the room.

They made the drive back to London in just over two hours. Sherlock spent the first hour and a half slumped against John in the back seat of the black Mercedes that had arrived precisely on time to collect them. When they had switched from the M11 to the M25 Sherlock had begun to perk up, slowly straightening with each passing mile. By the time they passed Abbey Road he was sitting at a rigid attention, face plastered to the window and no doubt cataloguing every change that had taken place in this absence. As they drove down the side of Regent’s Park John could feel him starting to vibrate with excitement, fingers tapping out a nervous tattoo on his knee.

When the car pulled up to 221B John felt his own heart lurch as if it had missed a beat and stumbled to catch up. The bags were forgotten, left for the driver, as Sherlock bounded to the door and banged the knocker just once.

There was a pause, then hurrying footsteps and the door opened with a jerk. Martha Hudson stood just inside the doorway for a moment, eyes filling with tears before she grabbed Sherlock and pulled him close. He returned the gesture with enthusiasm, muttering something John couldn’t catch that made her tighten her grip on him even more.

Eventually, she released her hold only to do the same to John, hugging him tightly before ushering them both inside and up the stairs as she said, “Mycroft’s had people by dusting for me and returning things he’s had put in storage. They delivered some furniture, Sherlock, and put it in your room. It looked like a new bed and a dresser. Did you order them? And John some boxes of things that I think are yours were dropped off as well, they’re on the kitchen table. Now listen to me, prattling on when you’re only just home.” She opened their door and led the way into the front room.

There was a skull on the mantelpiece, two chairs facing each other by the fire, and a sofa under a smiley face spray painted on the wall… it was home. 

Mrs. Hudson bustled into the kitchen and returned with a plate piled high with the blackcurrant scones Sherlock was fond of. He plucked one from the top and took a large bite, crumbs showering onto the freshly cleaned carpet as he said appreciatively, “Oh, I have missed this.”

“Not your housekeeper, dear.” But she was smiling broadly as she said it, and John suspected there was a lot of fresh baking in their near future.

John took one as well and walked over to sit in his old chair, running his free hand over the arm as if to anchor himself that he really was back in Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson wrung her hands as if she didn’t quite know what to do with them as she regarded the two men, likely resisting the urge to hug further. “It’s all put back to rights; just the same as it was before. Except for those boxes of yours in the kitchen, John. I imagine there’s things to go up to your bedroom.”

Time to bite the bullet. “No, Mrs. Hudson, we… we actually won’t be needing two rooms anymore.” John shot a slightly nervous smile at Sherlock, then continued, “Maybe we’ll keep case files up there and the worst of the experiments.”

Mrs. Hudson gave a squeak, beaming, then trying to compose herself said, “I’ll just go make us all a nice cuppa,” as she scurried from the room.

Sherlock came over to stand beside John’s chair, reaching down to put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. Ignoring the crumbs still raining down from Sherlock’s scone, John reached up and laced his fingers with Sherlock’s. 

They were home.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] for " Falling and Flying" by Joules Mer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5117474) by [Hamstermoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamstermoon/pseuds/Hamstermoon)




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